Diary
by lostmarble
Summary: Well, you might think to yourself, Lex has quite a complex. And your amateur psychoanalysis is probably accurate. In fact, I am willing to bet on the fact that I have at least ten. Lex decides to keep a diary. Epilogue that will make you want to kill me.
1. Primoris Epistula

Primoris epistula

Quibus ego induco me

I am Alexander Joseph Luthor.

Ah, but I wish I could have done with that surname. It's rarely brought me any help, and when it has, when has the end ever served me as I had hoped? It makes people fear me, cower when we have yet to exchange so much as a "how do you do?" Thanks for that one, Dad. It's been a great help, the "great" name of Luthor. The other kids weren't jealous, probably just scared.

So, here, I will be just "Lex."

No more, no less.

_Well_, you might think to yourself, _Lex has quite a complex_. And your amateur psychoanalysis is probably accurate. In fact, I am willing to bet on the fact that I have at least ten. Psychiatrists love me.

What can I say? That I have so many issues because my life tends to get…complicated? That I keep them hidden, largely for rear that people will reject me even further than they would upon simply hearing my name? That I would be a normal man had I had a normal childhood? I doubt it. What chance did I have at that? And I know myself too well to be able to fool myself into placing all of the blame for my idiosyncrasies on dear old Dad. I am largely a product of my own making, and for much of what I am and what I do, I have only myself to blame. I suppose that, deep down, I cling to the hope that this is the case. That _I_ choose who I am, my own destiny, rather than my father choosing it for me. In my deepest desires, my hidden I want to deny that I am growing to be like him—that in the very act of distancing myself from my blood, I am doing exactly as he did in the past.

But, I am not writing to talk about my father and his life. I am writing about myself as I am now, my thoughts, my secret hopes, so that I can never again forget a part of myself, my past. Rather than placing these thoughts in the box that my father presented me with as a child, to be hidden out of sight and mind, I will hold them near to me and memorize them, penning them in secret.

In reality, many of my problems center on the deceptively small town, which is, as a matter of no coincidence, named Smallville. These problems center on the fact that, here, I have allowed myself to become attached, to care.

People are, for me, like art. I suppose that you could call this another one of my complexes, but I prefer to think of myself as a conisseur. Admittedly, I am a sensualist, almost out of necessity—a regular Mersault (this is why my connection to Smallville is so unusual—I find myself caring for the people in a way beyond the physical). I choose my lovers on the basis of their appeal to my senses, without particular regard to race, gender, or stature. Often, physical beauty, even perfection, is key to my attraction; this explains my past infatuation with Lana Lang. Smooth cinnamon skin, raven hair, finely formed features, and a figure that I was certainly not the first to notice. It seems that, lately, my preference has been for the "dark and mysterious" type. Ironically, Clark Kent, my long-time, on-again, off-again best friend, and Lana's ex, is just this type. High cheekbones, sensual lips, finely muscled figure and incredibly colored eyes. It seems that I am waxing poetic about both of them, another anomaly for me. Right now, I would prefer not to dig too deeply into that fact.

Even so, I am fascinated by the mystery that is Clark Kent. Who is he? Certainly not the child of Jonathan and Martha Kent—he could not resemble them less. And something about him is…foreign. He has an almost unearthly beauty and an odd grace for someone of his stature. The prevalence of incredible events surrounding Clark Kent is also astounding, the first, and not least, of which was his saving my life after my car went through the guard rail on a bridge. I am sure that I hit him. I am _certain_ of it…but how could he have survived? What is he?


	2. Secundus Epistula

Duem Epistula

Quibus obex cado

* * *

I had a revelation today.

It seems that I have a penchant for overindulgence; consequently, I take far too much of the things that harm me. I go to deeply into relationships, to the point when I cannot safely back out, and someone is _always _hurt. I want the truth—but when I get too much it makes me heartsick. Why can't I just learn what I want and be happy with what I have?

God, I know that if most people had what I have they would be ecstatic. Thrilled. I mean, what could _possibly_ be wrong with my life? I have a huge house, a promising company of my own, women and men beyond what I could ever want or need, and of course the cars.

Like the one that I crashed through that barrier all those years ago.

_That_ barrier was certainly both literal and figurative wasn't it, Lex? You let your guard down when you were brought back to life…you changed. People _can_ change, after all. Can't they? I want to believe so. But at the same time…I don't, and I can't. Seeing as my father has proved that to me, time and time again.

It all relates back to those two men, doesn't it? Those two figures that loom the largest in my life to date, such total opposites, it's almost incredible. Like light and dark, or polar ends of the same magnet.

Neither has given me what I want.

_Love. _

As sentimental as it is, it is my truest desire. Chalk it up to my newly discovered tendency to overindulge. When I have a taste of affection, I want it all; no barriers. A father's guidance, a lover's embrace…what is the difference, really? The depth and completeness of the passion behind either is the same.

Call it wistful—I also always want what I cannot have. Lately, it's getting harder to find anything I _can't_ have…and the desire fades once the object's attained, of course. Life is bitter with irony, isn't it?

It's the music and the drink talking. Elliott always puts me in a melancholy, self-critical mood. But, I find I like it—I can relate to his songs, therefore to him, perhaps. Songs are the truest expression of our souls, aren't they? Ah, I'm waxing poetic again. Perhaps that's the drink talking, too? God, I hope so. At any rate, relating to _anyone_ is not usually an activity I indulge in. Such a pity he died so young. But…to be alone with the music…no one will know that I have emotions if I only feel them in private. As the saying goes, if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear…it will never make a sound. Cutting down trees in empty forests had just better not become a habit. I'll run out of strength before I run out of woods.

* * *

"The doctor orders drinks all night to take away this curse  
But it makes me feel much worse  
Bled white…  
So here he comes with the blank expression  
Especially for me because he knows I feel the same  
Because happy and sad come in quick succession  
I'm never going to become what you became  
Don't you dare disturb me  
While I'm balancing my past  
Because you can't help or hurt me  
Like it already has  
I may not seem quite right  
But I'm not fucked, not quite  
Bled white  
Bled white" 


	3. Tertius Epistula

AN: normally don't do these, but…blatant plea for a beta! I think this needs it…or even if you review with an error that you notice, it would be beyond appreciated

* * *

_Tertius Epistula_

_Quibus verum est duplicitas_

* * *

I finished _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ today, and I was pained by how much I identified with, and perhaps even envied, Jim. Now, if you know the book, you know that this is illogical. He lived in Savannah--a small, traditional city in the south that is so set in its ways that he cannot be accepted, because of what he is. He may have been wealthy, as I admittedly, painfully obviously am, but he was on trial for the murder of his lover—a sexy boy-toy (and sometime hustler) named Danny.

I am apparently on a streak of empathy, however. Two in two days—a new record for me. First a drug-addicted musician with a father that never loved him and now this, a millionaire in a traditional, small town with a penchant for fine alcohol and younger men. However, in this case, I find it easier to find the places where his world ends and mine begins. After all, Smallville is a farming town, not the seat of old Southern gentility. I haven't tried to murder any ex-lovers recently, though they have tried to murder _me_. I am half-ashamed to admit that I envy his closeness with Danny. Though the subject of his desires was tempestuous and violent, it was clear that the two shared a passionate, even caring relationship, at least for a time.

Again in a black mood, I envied this closeness and intimacy.

And the fact that felt myself envying Jim for this reason made me feel remarkably guilty. I was doing it again—lusting after Clark. Though the age difference is less in our case (since when is there an "us"?) the basic circumstances in the time leading up to Danny's death was enough to make the description click. But what really did it for me was a simple, five-word description of Danny.

"A walking streak of sex."

These words echoed in my head as I lowered the book to the table. Clark may be the opposite of Danny in every other way—from his innocence to his calm politeness—but this, he most certainly is. They continue to resound vaguely through my skull, like a bell that should have forgotten that it has been struck, but continues to reverberate.

And so, I desire him. What of it? I have desired many others in the past, and I am capable of restraining myself.

_Nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negata._

Ovid, the spring of truth. The desire in my veins, however, is too potent to be called anything other than longing. How odd—I was under the impression that Luthors never needed any one else with them. Apparently, this is another of my childhood "lessons" that was later contradicted by the real world.

Again, I find myself staring at red wine. This time, however, I am more civilized; I have managed to pour my drink into a glass before downing it as a football player chugs his Gatorade. Perhaps, I simply do not have the burning need to get drunk that I did the last time I wrote. I am able to approach life more calmly…or I have worn myself out with the mental football game that is emotion. I understand, now, why my father cautions against emotion.

Hear that, Dad? I'm admitting you're right.

To quote you, "you get one."

I certainly make quite an image right now, and it is one that I can take pleasure in. I sit a couch in front of a fire, writing a letter by hand on expensive paper. (I write by hand so that I can be sure there is only one copy. Computers _always_ leave trails, so sometimes the most primitive method is the best for recording one's private thoughts.) The fire in front of me casts a glow on my skin that makes me seem more healthy than I am, nearly the color of Clark's honeylit skin. The flames sparkle through my nearly empty glass, the Bordeaux glowing like a ruby on fire.

Oh , inconcessus diligo , vestri virus est dulcis quod magis decadent quam teres vinum. Ut particeps vestrum necne , aut est morior.

Interesting. I am honestly not sure where that came from.

However, I have now accepted that I am becoming a clandestine poet. Handwritten notes and letters have always appealed to my creative side, because of their simple physical beauty, and inherent intimacy. The truth behind this statement is…ambiguous. I have no idea what created the verse, whether it was my thoughts of Clark or the beauty of the wine in the firelight. If I am a poet, does that make Clark my muse?

I am banking on the idea that "_in vino veritas,"_ may not hold true.

Love, though? No. I think not. I do not know, anymore, whether to trust my emotions. These letters to myself, in their intimacy, have prompted me to become introspective with regard to my desires, emotions and …feelings. Yes, Lex Luthor has feelings, too. Just because I don't show them to you doesn't mean that I don't cry myself to sleep at night.

Just kidding.

Of course.


	4. Quartus Epistula

_Author's disclaimer: I do not own _Wicked, _Disturbed_, _Bright Eyes or _Smallville, _though I love them all. Don't sue me. Please? _

_**Quartus Epistula**_

_**Quibus ego visio utriusque everto quod angelus**_

**_

* * *

_**

I had a disturbing dream last night.

Oddly, it was disturbing because of how I woke up, not only because of what I saw while I was asleep.

The night began normally enough, however. Knowing my knack for the classics and Latin, Clark had asked me to help him with a paper for school on the writings of some of the philosophers of antiquity. We met at the Talon at five, and drank endless cups of coffee while wading through various full works and Cliff's Notes of others. It was unremarkable, other than that I tried a new creation of Lana's. Nutmeg, chili peppers, cinnamon and cardamom were mixed with Thai coffee grounds and drip brewed. Mixed with condensed milk, it was called, unsurprisingly, "Thai Coffee." However unoriginal the name was, the flavor was like nothing I had ever tasted: dark and mysterious, exotic but sweet—though not ad nauseum; the taste of the coffee was there, keeping it earthy without being bitter. Apparently, Lana had had a Thai friend in Paris who had drunk nothing but this in the mornings. I cannot help but think that a cup of this would be a far better start to my days than my traditional black coffee.

Finally, after many "accidental" hand bumps on my part, three cups of Thai coffee a piece, and a few pages of the paper written, I checked my watch and was surprised to see that it was already eight thirty. Glancing outside, I saw that it was already dark: the streetlamps shown under a bruise-black sky dense with what were apparently heavy rain clouds. The Talon had nearly emptied out, and, breaking the companionable silence, I suggested that I give him a lift to the mansion and help him finish the paper there, after a bite to eat and maybe a few games of pool. Pausing in his typing and rolling his shoulders slightly in an effort to release tension, he agreed. Did he know how sensual that was? I resisted the temptation to offer a massage, and, instead, got up and started towards the door, looking back over my black silk-clad shoulder and raising an eyebrow.

"Ready?" _I will not think sexual thoughts about Clark Kent._

"I'm coming, hold on."

_He's not making it any easier. _

We left the Talon, the bells on the door tinkling lightly like glass breaking.

* * *

My car was parked a block away, and we walked in companionable silence. I pressed the unlock button on the key chain, and I could hear the sound of doors unlocking as the Porsche's lights flashed. We got into the car, both of us having to bend our heads, and I turned the key in the ignition. As the stereo turned on, I heard strains of Disturbed murmuring from the speakers, the bass beat thrumming softly ("Can you feel that?  
That shit"). The night had turned cold, but I put the driver's side window down. I'm willing to sacrifice my warmth for the feeling of cold air caressing my skin, slipping over it like frozen black velvet—besides, what else are seat heaters for. I cranked up the stereo and sped off down the road towards the mansion.

"_Drowning deep in my sea of loathing  
Broken your servant I kneel  
(Will you give into me?)  
It seems what's left of my human side  
Is slowly changing ... in me  
(Will you give into me?)"  
_

I cranked up the stereo till the bass vibrated the car and finally relaxed into the soft black leather of my seat.

"_Looking at my own reflection  
When suddenly it changes  
Violently it changes  
Oh no, There is no turning back now  
You've woken up the demon ... in me"_

My mind drifted… the music reminded me of being younger in Metropolis and spending my nights in clubs. Bodies upon bodies—a sea of bodies, moving to the deafening bass beat, feeling it in my bones and on sweaty skin as I ground against strangers in leather and studs, black eyeliner and fishnet, my skin a hypersensitive mass of nerves as the lights sent me higher. An utterly sensual experience—one of the things I miss about what the tabloids refer to as my "wild youth."

I flashed back to an image of myself in a bathroom at one such club, bracing myself against the sink, cold water running. I glanced up at the mirror and caught sight of myself—thick black kohl around my eyes making me look like an Egyptian pharaoh…in a skintight fishnet muscle tee and tight black pants. Black rubber bracelets around my wrist, a studded collar. My reflection smiled wickedly. If the tabloids wanted a story to ruin the Luthor family name…

I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, with that thought as my last recollection.

The song ended, and I glanced over at Clark, who was looking back at me with an odd, slightly frightened expression on my face. I realized that I had a somewhat maniacal smile on my face, and quickly straightened my features into my customary mask.

"You alright, Clark?"

"Uh…yeah." He stared straight ahead, looking slightly shaken.

I raised an eyebrow, but turned back to the road.

The next song was, mercifully, more low-key.

* * *

When we had finished 15 games of pool (Clark was not satisfied until he had beaten me at least once), we headed for the kitchen. The staff had the night off—it was a Saturday and I allow them Saturday night, then all day on Sunday—so I found some leftover penne pasta with marinara from a couple of nights before. Clark settled (typically) on a turkey sandwich with so much mustard that Ivisibly cringed when he took the first zealous biteGathering our food, we settled by the fire (philosophy paper completely forgotten) and sat eating in contented silence, staring at the flames, listening to them crackle.

Clark broke the silence after some time. "So you're leaving for Chicago in the morning?"

"Yes."

I studied Clark's face for secret motivation, but saw none, only mild curiosity and relaxation. I noted with some regret that his shoulders were now looser than they had been (an opportunity probably best left missed, anyway) as he draped his arm across the back of the couch, looking for all the world as though he were waiting for his date to return and reclaim the seat next to him. I squelched a bizarre and utterly unwarranted spasm of jealousy. I glanced back at the fire.

"What are you gonna do there?"

I looked up again, thinking the answer was obvious

"It's a business trip, remember? Work. Meetings. Confrontations with my father. The usual."

"No, I mean, what are you going to _do_ there, sightseeing and stuff."

"I've been to Chicago so many times, and you can see the same sights only so many times without being bored to death." I glanced at Clark, he seemed to be waiting for me to go on, head tilted slightly to one side, firelight playing off of his still features. The image was so much like a child waiting to hear a story that I decided to humor him. "I'd like to catch a few shows, I suppose. I saw RENT last time that I was there and liked it…you remember me telling you about it?" I had explained the story to him when I had gotten home, and played him the soundtrack; I hadn't mentioned that I saw myself in some of the characters…the drugs…the sex…all of it was still a bit too familiar. (I didn't want to have Clark unnecessarily worried about my having contracted HIV, as I knew he inevitably would be. After all, I had used a condom, and it had been so many years ago that, had the disease entered my blood, I would have known it long ago. Besides, I had yet to be sick since the meteor shower.)

"So…what shows are you seeing this time?"

I shrugged. "I'm not there for long. Maybe _Wicked_. It recently moved there from New York." Having bought the soundtrack, I suspected that I might see myself in Ephelba: the future Wicked Witch of the West who only tries to do good, though the results tend to sour. As a line in the show goes, _"no good deed goes unpunished."_ A melancholy, self-pitying thought, but one that I felt held a fair amount of accuracy, nevertheless.

Knowing the answer before he asked, Cark questioned, "Do you have the soundtrack?" I always listen to the soundtracks to shows that I am contemplating seeing, if they are available; I like to know that I will not be wasting my time at a flop.

For an answer, I walked over to the stereo and opened the CD case nearby. Placing the disc in the player, I pressed play and walked over to my bar, pulling out two blue water bottles.

"_Good News! She's Dead!  
__The Witch of the West is dead!"_

I tossed Clark one and sat back on the couch, relaxing, staring at the fire, and letting the strains of music wash over me, bleeding into a dream-world in which I am Ephelba: doubly cursed, green and bald, and the citizens of Smallville march on the mansion with pitchforks and torches, demonic and grotesque in the flickering light

"_No one mourns the Wicked  
No one cries, 'They won't return!'  
No one lays a lily on their grave  
The good man scorns the Wicked!  
Through their lives, our children learn  
What we miss, when we misbehave"_

Clark appears, both Galinda and Fiyero at once, and delivers my eulogy, which sounds like the song, but also like something someone once told me:

_"And Goodness knows  
The Wicked's lives are lonely  
Goodness knows  
The Wicked die alone  
It just shows when you're Wicked  
You're left only  
On your own"_

Someone once told me that some of us are meant to be alone. If I am one of those, am I also Wicked? If so, can I be redeemed?

_"Are people born Wicked? Or do they have  
Wickedness thrust upon them?"_

Well, one thing is for sure, if wickedness is genetic, I'm pretty much screwed.

* * *

After perhaps half an hour, Clark yawned proclaiming, "I like it, but I'm beat. G'night, Lex. Sweet dreams."

I opened my eyes with a jerk, not realizing that they had been closed, and glanced at him in surprise, eyebrows raised.

He shrugged a bit sheepishly. "My family always says that before one of us goes to bed."

I liked that. Did that mean that, somewhere, at least subconsciously, he thought of me as family? I filed that question away for another time. "Good night. I'll see you in the morning, if you're up early enough…otherwise, the guestroom is all yours; feel free to have breakfast if you're in the mood in the morning. You know where it is." I was struck by the familiarity of the statement, and surprised that I had to keep myself from calling out, "Sweet dreams to you too." I gazed into the flames, deep in thought by the time Clark left the room.

I stayed awake a while, half-listening to the music, intending to finish the soundtrack, but eventually falling asleep, lulled by the dimming warmth of the fire and the sweet strains escaping the speakers of the stereo.

_"…I couldn't be happier  
Simply couldn't be happier  
Well - not "simply":  
'Cause getting your dreams  
It's strange, but it seems  
A little - well - complicated  
There's a kind of a sort of… cost  
There's a couple of things get…lost  
There are bridges you cross  
You didn't know you crossed  
Until you've crossed  
And if that joy, that thrill  
Doesn't thrill you like you think it will…  
__Still, I couldn't be happier,  
__Because happy is what happens when all your dreams come true…"_

****

_Clark and I are sitting next to each other on the couch, discussing some innocuous topic, but eventually fall silent. I idly watch the fire light on his face and hair, setting them aglow. A heavy feeling of warm, lazy contentment spreads through my limbs as the minutes stretch on. The CD player is still playing the _Wicked_ soundtrack, and a new song begins._

"Kiss me too fiercely  
Hold me too tight  
I need help believing  
You're with me tonight  
My wildest dreams  
Could not foresee  
Lying beside you  
With you wanting me"

_Clark half-smiles but it doesn't reach his bottlegreen eyes, and I see something there-- a depth of caring, and a softness and openness that makes my breath hitch, but some odd sort of deep sorrow, as well. Somewhere, burning faintly, is a spark of hope, for what, I cannot tell._

_Still smiling slightly, Clark leans forward and presses his lips to mine in the sweetest, most chaste kiss I have ever experienced. A comfortable, satisfied warmth gathers in my chest even as I feel myself getting turned on. I feel the 5 o'clock stubble rough on his jaw line as my hand goes up to touch his cheek, tracing his cheekbone tenderly with my thumb. After a moment he pulls away. I am practically drooling, I am panting so hard with desire. But there is still that strange sadness in his eyes. I look at him uncertainly._

_He pulls from somewhere a set of silver ropes, glowing gold. I laugh, saying that I didn't think he'd be so kinky. His slightly swollen lips give that same peculiar sorrowsweet little half-smile, and he approaches me slowly. Kneeling, he carefully ties my legs to my leather armchair, testing the knots, and I watch the dying firelight play darkly off of his inky hair, grinning in anticipation. He looks up at me apologetically, and still strangely sad, his head almost in my lap. Fighting for control, I smirk and grit out a husky, "It's alright: I'm plenty willing to put up with your kinks, Clark. I've been waiting so long for you, that, even if I weren't into this, I wouldn't mind. But since I do enjoy it…" my smirk widens. "…Do your worst." He doesn't meet my eyes, just continues to bind me to the large chair, first my arms, then my torso._

_When he steps back, his head is still tilted downwards, and his long, wavy bangs obscure his eyes. He doesn't move from his spot in front of me. His back is to the fire, and he is nearly in silhouette. I notice that his muscular shoulders are shaking slightly. Squinting into the darkness of the shadows on his face, I see twin trails of tears shining like diamonds, or stars. " Clark?" I ask tentatively. He finally looks up at me, and I actually gasp at the anguish so starkly etched on his features, thrown into hot relief by the flames at his back._

_"Please Lex, I… so sorry… God, so sorry," he chokes out._

_I stare at him in bewilderment. The comfortable, warm glow in my chest is slowly being leeched out by tendrils of a fog of cold panic and dread._

"Unlimited  
The damage is unlimited  
To everyone I've tried to help  
Or tried to love"

_Tears still falling from his sad, sad eyes, Clark takes a deep breath, and looks away again as though he is trying to steel himself, or gather his resolve. Perhaps both, because his next words blow me away._

_"It's better this way…it's for your own good…for the good of the world. If you can never leave, they will never bleed, Segeth."_

_I sit there for a moment, numb, disbelieving that he would think that I would wreak so much havoc and bloodshed. Then I remember the old woman, the blind seer, dying of fright when my future was made known to her, before she could even tell me what was so terrifying. "Oh God…" I mumble. 'I wouldn't…I couldn't…?' But the uncertainty grows, making my chest ache all the more._

"One question haunts and hurts  
Too much, too much to mention:  
Was I really seeking good  
Or just seeking attention?  
Is that all good deeds are  
When looked at with an ice-cold eye?  
If that's all good deeds are  
Maybe that's the reason why

"No good deed goes unpunished  
All helpful urges should be circumvented  
No good deed goes unpunished  
Sure, I meant well -  
Well, look at what well-meant did"

_"You could, Segeth," he says strongly and sadly, wearily echoing my own fears. Oddly, all I can focus on is the fact that he isn't saying my name. " …And I can't stand to watch them suffer, to watch you cause so much pain._ You know not what you'd do._ Can't watch you…" his voice cracks, and with that blatant biblical reference, he stops mid sentence and walks to the door, opens it, and leaves the room quietly. I have the odd, disconnected feeling that I imagined it all, but look down and see the silver ropes gleaming brightly in the dying light of the fire. As I watch, they begin to melt into my skin, through the fabric of my clothes, leaving no mark on the clothing but burning me hotter than fire ever could._

"My road of good intentions  
Led where such roads always lead"

_The scene is too much like another scene of betrayal, bound and burning in a chair in the same room. Though this time, the psychological anguish of being left vies with the scorching of the ropes. I scream out in agony as the two pains fuse into a white-hot light behind my tightly closed eyelids._

"Oh god. Clark. Don't leave! Please? Clark, I lo—"

I felt a sudden gust of wind, cooling my feverish body. Then, a voice, balm on my frantic mind.

"Lex, what is it? I'm right here!"

I hesitantly opened my sleepfogged eyes.

The dream had seemed more…true than the world I was returning to; the colors had been more vivid, more solid, the sounds truer and my body more…_alive_. I felt as though a bit of me had died, loosing the heightened consciousness of the dream and returning to a reality that was not quite real, as ludicrous as the thought was. The CD player must have been set on continuous: the soundtrack continued to play in the background, and I was sleepily distracted, listening. A sudden thought occurred to me, and I dazedly swam back to reality.

"How--?"

"I heard you calling and I came. I thought someone was trying to kill you--you sounded like you were in pain…" He trailed off, but I did not glance up.

Shaking my head, I ran my hand over my scalp, a bewildered gesture. My guard was still down, and I am shaken. I felt Clark's eyes on me, and I finally looked up, confused and, I admit, slightly hopeful. However, I followed his eyes to my wrist and, suddenly, there was a rushing in my ears, and my stomach clenched. The cuff of my shirt had fallen back, revealing a fine, rope-shaped tattoo, circling my wrist.

Fantastic. Now my dreams are manifesting themselves physically. It's not as though this hasn't happened before (read: desert island), but this is the first time that someone _else_ has been able to see the manifestation. It begs the question: why _this_ dream--why not one of the ones in which I make love to supermodels, or Clark…perhaps both?

I mentally shook myself, for what may have been the tenth time in as many minutes. On a hunch, I surreptitiously glanced at my other wrist, then bent down as though I were straightening my pants, checking for similar marks on all three.

Nothing.

I stared at the inside of my wrist, suddenly catching sight of the words there, script, directly under the rope: _"unus servo memoria."_ Above the rope was an odd design, reminding me of the one that had been burned into the Kent's barn a few years ago. (Which Clark had steadfastly denied knowing anything about; now, I was more than slightly incredulous.) Thank God for small favors; the Latin will, at least, keep their meaning hidden from most prying eyes.

"Lex…what on earth…?"

I remained silent for a moment, and the music continued in the background. The CD must have been on repeat. How could I explain this bizarre dream…especially the given the truth behind it?

"_Kiss me too fiercely,  
__Hold me too tight  
__I need help believing  
__You're here tonight."_

_You've got to be fucking kidding me. _After a moment's silence, I said in an utterly emotionless and innocent voice, "Clark, I'm sure you've heard all about my 'wild days' when I was younger. Why should a slightly kinky tattoo surprise you?"

Clark gawked, his mouth actually falling open (I forced my mind to go numb), but recovered quickly. "But… I've never seen it before…and I've seen you…" Clark stopped mid sentence, turning a hilarious tomato color that matched his pajama pants.

My pajama pants.

My clingy, thin, red silk pajama pants.

Clark was wearing my pajama pants. And. No. Shirt. Normally, I would have pressed the question, asking him jokingly to finish the sentence, however, my already-humming libido immediately went into overdrive.

_"Every moment  
As long as you're mine  
I'll wake up my body  
And make up for lost time."_

_Unreal. This is absolutely unbelievable_. And it was, but, as I've said before, fate is bitterly ironic. Without a word, I abruptly got up and went to the stereo. I hit the "skip" button, and, on a whim, "shuffle" as well. Next, I crossed over to the bar, and poured myself a full glass of scotch, stiff. It was going to be an even longer night than I had thought.

"Clark, do you want anything?"

"Just water. Thanks Lex."

Back turned, I rolled my eyes even as I let out a sigh of relief. Clark would never disobey his parents and have a drink with me, but tonight, that might have been a good thing. His sobriety would give me incentive _not_ to get utterly shit-faced—if he would remember everything in the morning, I had to be on my guard. If nothing else, I would have no regrets.

I brought the drinks over to the table, keeping my eyes fixed on anything other than the finely muscled, bare chest in front of me. It was a rather futile attempt. He was blatantly unselfconscious about his state of undress, which ensured that I got an unobstructed view of his unbelievably sculpted upper body. _Besides,_ _what harm can there be, so long as I treat him as one of the Classical statues that he so resembles—"look but don't touch"? _But…though I'd seen Clark shirtless before, I had yet to see him as such in my own home, wearing _my_ clothes, sitting in front of _my_ fire. I had the almost uncontrollable urge to spill the water down his abdomen and simply watch the crystalline beads as they slid down his chest, reflecting the fire, looking like tiny flames.

With that thought, I immediately downed two gulps of my scotch, grimacing as it burned down my throat, but momentarily distracted from any other sensations that _might_ have been beginning in my groin.

Clark gave me a smirk and raised an eyebrow—he consistently makes a point of making it clear how much he disapproves of my drinking habits, and I had been downing the scotch down like cold water.

If only it had had the same effect.

I sat down across from Clark and surreptitiously crossed my legs, retaining my outer calm and mentally thanking my years of training myself appear emotionless. I took another, slightly more elegant sip or my dink and resolutely stared at the fire. Minutes stretched on as we sat in silence, the music continuing to play softly— this time, without event. I mentally counted to a hundred. _Calming down…better. _Just when I had regained my control, Clark spoke tentatively.

"Lex?"

I glanced over at him, keeping my eyes resolutely focused on his face—_His eyes, dammit! Don't look at his lips!—_and took a slow, deep breath. "Yes Clark?" I questioned calmly.

"Could I see your wrist again?"

I held out my wrist, tilting it so that the markings were in the light.

I had expected him to glance at the symbol, and perhaps try to decipher the text. What I did _not_ expect was for him to trail a featherlight finger over my skin, tracing the band, then the geometric design over it. My breath caught in my chest, and I was afraid to look at his face. I closed my eyes as my throat and chest constricted, trying to ignore the effect that his touch on my skin was having on my body. _Shit_. At the same time, however, I was reveling in the feeling, slightly euphoric. I risked a glance into Clark's eyes, curiosity unbearable, and saw that he was staring at my wrist still, trailing his fingers over and over the symbol. His gaze was unreadable, his lips parted slightly, and his cheeks flushed. My throat clenched even more painfully, in hope and apprehension.

"_Hands touch  
__Eyes meet  
__Sudden silence  
__Sudden heat  
__Hearts leap in a giddy world."_

Blinking, awakening from my daze, I sprang out of my seat and walked quickly over to the stereo, resisting the urge to full-out fly at it. My sole coherent thought was_ **New. Music. NOW. **_Tearing the CD out of the player, I pulled another from a nearby case. Paying no attention to the title, I slammed it into the stereo. The first notes of Damien Rice's _O_ filled the air. Fantastic music to make out to—highly inconducive to my desire to keep my literal and metaphorical cool. Slightly frantic, I flipped through the case, finally settling on Bright Eyes' _I'm Wide Awake It's Morning._ Aah, a healthy dose of cynicism. Perfect. I pressed hit "play," and began to breathe.

Finally calm, my shoulders, which I had not even realized had been tense, relaxed, and dropped. I turned and glanced back at Clark. His face showed an odd mixture of bewilderment, amusement, and…what could have been either disappointment or relief. I hoped it was the former, but even I couldn't rationally believe that that could be the case.

"So, where did you find that symbol that you got tattooed on your wrist?" His eyes still sparkled slightly, but his words were serious.

Thankful that he had chosen to overlook my bizarre actions but guiltily irritated over the loss of contact, I walked nonchalantly back to the couch where I had been seated and picked up my scotch. I swirled it and took a pensive sip. At the same time, I searched Clark's eyes for ulterior motives, but they were veiled. I couldn't tell whether he had recognized the symbol from his barn last year or if, as I suspected, he was feigning innocence to conceal an even larger reason behind his question.

Two could play at that game. Nonchalantly tracing a pattern on the carpet with my eyes, I responded, slightly capriciously, "From some old book of …_Indian_ symbols that they had at the tattoo parlor. No clue what it means, but it looks sort of… _familiar_, doesn't it?"

He picked up on the vein of sarcasm in my voice, and had the grace to wince, and turn slightly pink.

"Sorry, Lex, I didn't mean…"

I raised an eyebrow, daring him to go on. He shrugged helplessly.

"…didn't mean to…pry?"

I smiled slightly. "You know I dislike _secrets_ Clark."

At that, he gave a sad smile.

"Me too."

I was struck by the sincerity and forlornness of his words and, without knowing why, I felt incredible sympathy for the young man sitting slumped in the couch across from me. I leaned across the table and put a hand on his knee--for once, a completely platonic gesture. "You know, I could listen, if you'd like…I promise. I'm your friend and I just want to help." A little of my curiosity about him must have seeped into my voice, because he glanced up sharply. He must also have seen the remorse on my face, however, because he gave that odd, sorrow sweet little half-smile…familiar…where did I see it? _The dream!_ I stared at him in surprise, but he said only. "I know, Lex."

His eyes were beginning to droop, and he curled up, childlike, in a corner of the leather couch.

"Lex?"

"Yes?" I said, slightly sleepy, but smiling slightly at the childlike purity of his position. _So naïve. _I studied the high cheekbones, honeylit skin and dark chocolate hair (my favorite flavor—so much more complex), colors made all the more rich by the firelight. I suddenly realized that _he_ is the reason that I am so fond of Smallville—there is a purity to him that I ascribe to the place, a trusting simplicity that, though not necessarily real, is nevertheless rather comforting. He feels the way that, as a child, I thought Home should.

And I realized that this might not be such a revelation, after all. He is family, and I love him. At least as a brother.

"This is really a strange question…"

I raised an eyebrow, slightly apprehensive. "What are friends for?"

"Wouldyousingtome?" he blurted out in a rush, his cheeks matching his pants again.

I was startled out of my stupor, and not certain that I heard him right. "Excuse me?"

He turned even redder, if possible, and avoided my eyes. "Forget it," he mumbled.

"No, really, what did you say?" I asked with a slight grin.

Still red, staring at the floor as though he wished he could burn a hole in it to crawl through with his gaze alone, he mumbled, "I always hear you humming to the music whenever we're in the car and you seem happy, and I was kind of wondering what it would sound like…"

I was silent, waiting for him to go on.

"…if you sang." He glanced up at last, and, seeing my incredulous expression, added, "You were doing it again just now. Humming." My eyebrows shot up and I contemplated the request. I knew my voice to be a warm baritone, but it was probably husky with total disuse, but for my guilty pleasure of occasionally singing in the shower.

And, apparently, humming in the car.

I had not realized that I allowed myself to be quite _that_ open around Clark Kent. Still, this would be a rather large leap. I had not sung for anyone since high school, though I had been an avid member of my school's choir and musical theatre productions. (From this comes my love for musicals over opera. Actually, I was fairly good at both acting and singing. My father refused to let me continue with it, however. After all, I am a _Luthor_, not a _sissy_. _Real_ men don't _act_. Not that I'm _bitter_, or anything. Now, the only place that my acting skills get use is the board room during long, boring meetings, and when keeping my emotions under wraps.)

_Well, why not_, I finally decided. After all, Clark already heard me humming, and if he wanted to hear more, it obviously couldn't sound that bad. So, studiously keeping my eyes off of his curled-up form on the couch, I began to sing softly, my voice growing in strength as I began to feel the music and loose myself in it as I had not since I was young.

"_When everything gets lonely I can be my own best friend  
I'll grab a coffee and the paper; have my own conversations  
With the sidewalk and the pigeons and my window reflection  
The mask I polish in the evening, by the morning looks like shit_

"_I know you have a heavy heart; I can feel it when we kiss—"_

"Lex…" A soft voice brought me down from my music-induced high.

_Oh no. _I stopped, taking a deep breath. After a few moments, I glanced at Clark, expecting distaste, or perhaps pity, depending on how badly I had sounded

What I saw was shock. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for, but also not one of the ones that I expected. I waited for him to continue, standing stock still, back to the flames.

"That was…where did you learn to sing like that?" A bit of awe mixed with the shock in his eyes, and a small, happy smile curved his lips.

_This_ was a sight I liked. I smiled slightly. "I sang when I was at school. I stopped when I graduated."

"Why?"

It was my smile that was melancholy this time. "Life."

He paused, unsure how to respond. "Could you keep singing, please?"

Slightly taken aback, I was happy to oblige.

"_And I'm not sure what the trouble was that started all of this  
The reasons have run away but the feeling never did  
It's not something I would recommend, but it is one way to live  
Cause what is simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is  
What's so simple in the moonlight, by the morning is so complicated."_

When the song ended, I sat staring into the fire, mesmerized by the flames and floating in a timeless state with my mind utterly empty, just watching the patterns in the smoke and burning logs. When I finally turned around, I saw Clark curled up on the couch, looking young and grown up all at once, with the smallest smile on his lips. The play of the fire sharpened his features, but, somehow, he still seemed soft and smooth.

Silently, and not knowing exactly why I was doing it, I crossed over to the couch and looked down at Clark. I lightly brushed a curl behind his ear and, still feeling disconnected, I covered him with the chenille throw resting on the arm of the couch. Feeling like a mother or a lover, I tucked the edges around his goose bumped skin, and settled myself on the other couch. Lying back, I drifted off while watching him sleep, music still playing softly in the background.

"…_With these things there's no telling  
__We just have to wait and see  
__But I'd rather be working for a paycheck  
__Then waiting to win the lottery  
__Besides, maybe this time is different  
__I mean, I really think you like me."_


	5. Diapente Epistula

_**Diapente Epistula**_

_Quibus ut quod eram glacialis et gelu suscipio ut egelidus et tabesco_

Caught the plane the next morning to flee to the city. What did I find waiting for me in the shadows?

Power and drugs and clubs and slutty dancing to make things that should be solid into jello and all things Sex become hard. And sex…sex like war, like fighting, because the burning want—lust—and tearing need is the same. All's fair in love and war, especially since they're really the same in essence—making love is sex is aggression, a hard knot that ties up your body and mind, aching because nobody, _nobody _should be able to bend like that, but for some reason, we all want to try. Maybe with just a little more stretching…?

So.

Sex and …notlove. Distinct sense of notlove. Not what I want.

I want…I desire…and perhaps I love. In that altogether non platonic fashion that I have been told to avoid—actually, platonic was bad too--and now…now I'm thinking that perhaps my father tried all these years to deny to me what he could not have could not _give_—love. In any capacity.

Passion.

So great, a ring of fire, and burns a hole through me, never-ending, and I don't _want_ it to, masochist that I am. Sadomasochist—I want to share the pain, _need_ to share it. Want to see his eyes as it tears through him, and the music swirls around me like a cloud…

"We touch, the dark begins to stir  
We can't go back to where we were..."

"Remember when I moved in you?

The holy dark was moving too

And every breath we drew was Hallelujah."

Dark. Dark fire and a "holy dark" that consumes from the inside…the black hole of emotion, made hot. Burn me as the wine and firewater flow through my veins, it seems I'll be the first to spontaneously combust.

Can't be coherent. Getting less so the more I write, is the emotional catharsis more inebriating than the two bottles of champagne? I'm too debauched at this point to remember what kind it was…a true mark of how far gone I am. Why do I always write when I'm drunk? Too poetic, not enough said about what really _happens_, just pure emotion (the only thing about me that is, in fact, pure?), temperamental as a spring morning, or is it a summer hurricane? Writing now like I talk when I'm drunk, circuitous, confusing, metaphorical, but even less coherent, should such a thing be possible. Pure mental train of thought. Unadulterated, unfiltered (unlike my water…unlike everything else about me…damn)

Just found the champagne bottles before I left _that_ town. Both Cristal--ones I was saving, secretly hoping to get Clark so trashed on New Years' that he would kiss me at midnight. Oh well, I can buy more.

At least I only get drunk in style.

Ah, shit. What ever I touch turns to shit…that bitch—Fate--is laughing again…I always wanted to be like a character from antiquity…thought it would be Alexander the Great…but no. Midas, gone wrong. But when was I ever greedy for _shit_? _Power_, not _shit_. Still time, though…perhaps I can be both before I'm thirty? Or maybe I will burn in the ruins of Troy, like Paris. But he was already dead. So I can die before my empire crumbles…great. Clark will be my Trojan horse.

"One more disaster I can add to my  
Generous supply"

"My road of good intentions  
Led where such roads always lead"

Damn it to hell!

_Wicked. _

I am.

They tell me so often, how can it not eventually become the truth?

And I saw it, as well. _Wicked,_ that is. Just tonight, before coming back to this hotel room and slugging back swallow after swallow of alcohol like a teenager. 

Do you know how it ends?

I did…we all do. Ephelba, the Wicked Witch, melts. 

I slipped out of my seat as her shadow and Dorothy's hit the drapery, and smoke began to rise. I didn't need to see another go up in smoke to know it would happen. I walked straight out of the theatre. 

I feel like I'm burning, not melting, but she sizzled when she melted, so perhaps it did burn, after all. Fire, water, air…never enough air.

Her lover dies, too, the only one that has ever loved her. Truly loved her…dies because of her and her desire for rebellion, all consuming need to overthrow the most powerful man in the land.

Even as I hope that that cannot be me, I am haunted by another parallel (two lines that go on forever and never intersect…)

"Let his flesh not be torn  
Let his blood leave no stain  
Though they beat him  
Let him feel no pain  
Let his bones never break  
And however they try  
To destroy him  
Let him never die"

I hit Clark. He didn't die. Have I condemned him to be immortal? The horror of never knowing death.

Rationally, yes, I know, I couldn't have hit him…but I swear to you I did…but my brain cannot think on that now, alcohol is cushioning all of the prickly subjects, making the sharp details fuzzy…

Couldn't curse him so…wouldn't…

Hell.

It would be hell to be immortal and never to see an end. Future stretching on and on and on and on, no blissful release, as everything and everyone you love and hate dies. (What is the difference in the end? "Fine line between…" sounds like one of Jonathan Kent's platitudes. But we have to love before we can hate—hate is created through a sense of betrayal, and only those we love do we trust enough so that they can betray us).

We live to die…dying as soon as we're born…I would happily die if I could truly _live_ first. Closest I have gotten to that, to living with that burning clarity of what is true and real was after _coming back_ from death, after all. Clarktastein my mouth, Clarksmell on my body, mind as polluted and dirty as the river water I was pulled out of, where I belonged.

Perhaps I will never die, if you have to live to do so.

Surrounded by the graves of those I love, judgment day, and I, the sole soul left to be judged.

Will he be there with me?

"Better pray for your sins  
'Cuz the gay messiah's coming…"

What prompted this lovely introspection? Can't I just go back to drunken dreams of fast and slow sex, green eyes and curly brown hair, hard bodies and whispered oaths?

No.

Can't.

God, make it stop.

I've never asked for anything before, didn't think you existed, but either you do or fate does, I prefer you because fate is inescapable, but you allow room for change…

"Maybe there's a God above,

And all I ever learned from love

Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you."

"Thought that maybe I'd really love being alone--

Everybody but Heaven knows how I was wrong.

Oh, Lord, what have I done to myself?

What have I done to myself

In this vicious world?"

Fate. I knew it all along.

I'm kneeling by the starched, foreign hotel bed in an unfamiliar room. 

Some sort of altar…what an odd thought on so many levels. 

Expensive cloth, too. 

Offer up a prayer.

Come, rest your dark head on my pillow, wreathed with thorns that will never harm you, eyes as green as sin and as pure as bright feathers from the wings of an angel…you are a my scourge and my passion, my damnation and, perhaps, my evil angel.

_Nunquam transeat a me calix._

I demand it.

Now and ever, unto the ages of ages.

Amen.


	6. Sedecim Epistula

I don't own anything about _Smallvill_e, or Midtown's "Memory." The storyline is mine, however…steal it and I'll shove a billiard cue up your…never mind. Violence is not the answer. 

Reviews make me happier than a shirtless Lex. your convenience, the English translations of Latin texts are filed as a separate story called, creatively enough, "Diary: The Latin Texts." Hope it helps

* * *

**Sedecim Epistula **

_**Quibus pauci lacuna meritus mille questio **_

* * *

I flew in yesterday afternoon with a pounding headache, too hung over to even be squeamish about being in the airplane. 

When I stumbled in the door of the mansion a few hours later, I went immediately to my medicine cabinet and took enough ibuprofen to knock out a small elephant. I then stripped down to my boxers and fell into bed, staring at the television until I fell asleep, engaging in an unaccustomed activity that I knew would take my mind off of the _cause_ of my hangover—the reason that I had felt the need to get, as the English say, "utterly pissed."

I didn't wake again until the first shafts of light hit my bed as the sun rose this morning.

I hadn't gotten more than six hours of sleep on any night in recent memory, and marveled at the good it had done me. Stretching my slightly aching muscles, and noting the lack of ache in my head, I felt almost human again.

I rolled over, enjoying the sensation of being well-rested and still having time to relax in bed before having to leave for work at the shit factory.

There was a note on my bedside table, a tiny white card folded in half with my name printed on the front in a neat, asexual, and unfamiliar hand. 

)--(

_Dearest Lex--_

_Do you know that the symbol on your wrist means "hope"? The language is an…obsure one, so odds are slim that you know it, whatever your reasons are for choosing the symbol. Maybe you do know what it means. After all, there are many things I don't know about you. Interesting choice, either way. I'm sure you've already translated the Latin. _

_Now you know the entire meaning. _

_P.S. You look beautifully innocent when you sleep._

On the back:

_Can I be your memory?_

)--(

I stared open-mouthed. The fact that I manifested my surprise in any visible way was, in itself, a mark of how shocked I truly was.

Ordinarily, nothing overcomes my training.

But.

_Innocent?_ _Beautiful?_

What on earth?

I know who I hope it is.

And I know that that's wishful thinking.

Not because I don't think that Clark probably knew that the symbol meant hope—I do—but because the note addressed me as Dearest. The only two people who ever called me that are dead, so it must be someone else…

And then the bizarre nature of the note's appearance on my nightstand finally registered.

They were watching me sleep? How did they get in? Was it one of my staff? I rather doubt it. After that fiasco with that girl few years ago—the one that had a crush on me and whose brother tried to kill me for rejecting her—I have been so careful of who I hire. Old women and straight men, only. None of their families live on or near the mansion's grounds.

That leaves trained assassins and spies. They have gotten past security before—not here, but certainly in Metropolis. But why would they break in just to leave me a note—such a personal one, at that? Even now, I am unsure whether the shiver running down by back is due to apprehension or pleasure at its contents. And how could they possibly have seen the markings? I have kept them well hidden. Even while I was in Metropolis, and went to clubs where shirtsleeves would have made me look avuncular, I wore a leather cuff covering them. I even _slept_ in the damned thing.

So…Clark is really the only one that comes to mind that is consistently able to slip past my systems, but he rarely does that any more. He rarely visits without a purpose and, with the exception of the night before I left for Chicago (which I will not think about in detail, as I am presently trying to be rational), certainly does not visit the mansion at night. That was an anomaly.

We have not been on the closest of terms recently.

Part of this (most, says my miraculously surviving conscience, but I ignore it) is my fault. A conflict of interest—you cannot study a person, have them investigated like a specimen, and still hope to maintain a relationship with them--certainly not on any level that is truly meaningful. Your questions will inevitably cross the borders of trust and friendship, and, also inevitably, the subject/friend will realize what you are doing. If, like me, you continue to "research" your friend in spite of it all, and though you swore that the investigation was finished, you had it stepped up, could that relationship ever really be salvaged a second time? A third? How many betrayals before any love still held turns to loathing?

I'm like a Clark Kent addict—I know I'm no more entitled to his secrets than he is to mine, but as I have said before: I want all or nothing; I am a man of extremes. And I certainly want it all in this case—his love _and _his secrets.

_Avarus animus nullo satiatur lucro. _

Have I now ensured that I will never truly have either, if we have fallen so far apart that he does not habitually seek me out for reasons other than favors or help on papers?

My father once illustrated to me why my desire for acceptance in Smallville, especially with Clark and the Kents, would have disastrous results. Prometheus was a god that once tried to mingle with mortals—he even introduced fire to men. However, Zeus, king of the gods, discovered what he had done, and chained him to a rock for eternity, where his entrails were eaten out each day by vultures.

Cute. Really, Dad.

But it got the point across.

However, he neglected the ending _after_ the ending—when Prometheus was rescued from his exile by Hercules. You've heard of Hercules—the obscenely strong demigod who made it his mission later in life to help others. He was nearly invulnerable, hence the cause of mythological speculation surrounding his eventual death. The moral of this story?

_Contra Felicem vix deus vires habet. _

And who is luckier, after all, than Clark Kent?

Epiphany hit. I almost felt like shouting "Eureka!" Except for the fact that

I rarely shout, and I hate that word. It makes me feel like a mad scientist.

Alright, maybe I hate that because it's a little bit accurate.

But the quote—it's from a song. I don't remember the name…

What's important here are the lyrics.

If it's who I think it is…

Walking over to my desk, I pulled out a small piece of stationary, the type of card usually reserved for addressing gifts to those you feel obliged to buy something for, but to whom you really have nothing to say.

This time, its purpose was different: it could say everything, depending on who read it.

I was possessed by the absurd urge to share some valuable truth, as I had gained something useful from the card this morning.

I could feel my features forming themselves into a small, true smile.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Judging from recent experiences, I can be more open on paper than in person. Still, I attempted to keep my guard up, as images of cars flying off bridges and into churning water filled my mind, and I thought back…

)--(

_Dearest friend—_

_That is what you are, isn't it? Why else would you slip into my room, going through the trouble to remain undetected, only to leave me a note and watch me sleep? I'd like to think you're a compassionate stalker. I'm flattered. _

_I won't ask who you are. I don't want you to tell me, however much I want to know. Not yet. I'd like to wonder. _

_The Latin means "one to remember," or "one serves memory," depending on who you ask. My translation is more along the lines of, "one serves to preserve the memory." Sometimes, one is enough. _

_Just as I'm wondering about your identity, you'll have to speculate about the story behind the markings on my wrist. _

_You haven't earned quitethat much trust yet. _

_--Lex_

On the back:

_So get back, back, back to the disaster _

)--(

So.

Hope.


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Twistin', burnin', my thoughts turnin'  
Back to you again  
Sweet thing take me to the end

You better dig  
and take a look inside yourself

So the story goes or so I've heard it said"

-Dispatch, "Whirlwind"

* * *

And so the Diary ended. There were no further pages, and the writer's future, a blank.

Some may say that Lex, so far down the road to insanity—they will call it darkness—could not be redeemed. His mystery person—Clark?-- may have been his last chance at redemption, and when they never replied, it was the last step on this road, and he became dark beyond repair. They may even maintain that these notes were a figment of his own imagination.

Others, sympathizing with Lex, will see this chance at redemption and believe that, whether or not Lex meets the writer of these notes—whether or not the writer exists—his very hope is what will ultimately save him.

Still others, meeting in the middle, will say that Lex, though he makes frequent, earth-shaking mistakes, is no worse than any of us, any more than Clark is better. He is simply a representation of what we all _could_ be, given certain circumstances and choices. Regardless, they are both people (more or less), and thus neither wholly evil nor entirely good.

And then there are those who will have entirely different opinions on the ending of this story …that Lex met the love of his life through these notes, that he ultimately decided not to take the risk, or something else entirely.

It is, after all, yours to decide

* * *

"Who can say what's true?  
Nothing's quite so clear now…  
Witches can be right, Giants can be good.  
You decide what's right, you decide what's good"

-"No One Is Alone", _Into the Woods_


End file.
